On "Hesitation Marks," Nine Inch Nails' eighth studio album (and first in five years), Reznor's old, reliable "Pretty Hate Machine" is starting to show signs of wear and tear, while Reznor, himself, sounds complacent and like he's in a safe, happy place. Go figure.

No longer wearing his crown of excrement upon his liar's chair, Reznor now has an Academy Award and a Golden Globe (both for co-writing "The Social Network" soundtrack) on his mantle, next to his mummified cat, human bones and trusty gag ball. (Please note: I have never seen Trent's mantle. This is just the way I imagine it. Most likely, the real thing is more terrifying.)

Reznor, who has always been a reliable and relentless one-man wrecking crew, sounds like he's asleep at the wheel on "Hesitation Marks." Instead of going for the jugular, Reznor, the Marquis de Sade of modern rock, nestles deep into the doldrums of domesticated bliss.

Under the Nine Inch Nails moniker, "Hesitation Marks" is the closest Reznor has come to elevator music. True, it's elevator music for a freight elevator to hell, but elevator music nonetheless. Sonically, the bulk of the album's interchangeable arrangements are more ambient than industrial, and the gaggle of guest musicians Reznor has assembled (which include Fleetwood Mac's guitarist Lindsay Buckingham and former King Crimson guitarist Adrian Belew) are of little or no consequence.

The self-anointed "Mr. Self Destruct" might be a little disturbed — who isn't nowadays — but he's not disturbing. And, for the first time listening to a NIN record, I never felt that Reznor was in danger of harming himself and others. Without the primal rage, Reznor comes off as someone who's bellyaching too much about nothing and nothingness.

Call me old fashioned, but I like my "Pretty Hate Machine" less pretty and filled with more hate. Despite my initial disappointment of "Hesitation Marks," Nine Inch Nails will bring what promises to be a doozy of a show to the TF Bank Garden in Boston on Oct. 11.

Reznor examines how he (and on a larger scheme of thing, humanity) is fading into nothingness on the nihilistic masterpiece, "Copy of A." Reznor's disillusioned, disembodied voice permeates through a shuffling, slapping and shredding mix of gurgling synths and ricocheting backbeats, which, if he isn't careful, could be cited for assault and battery with a dangerous woofer. Making a scathing social commentary about society and, quite possibly, the sorry state of contemporary music, Reznor muses, "I am just a copy of a copy of a copy/Everything I say has come before/Assembled into something into something into something/I am never certain anymore." Whether he's talking to a lover, his mother, a teacher, a tyrannical ruler, a record executive or the Xerox repair guy, Reznor comes to the harsh realization, "I am just a finger on a trigger on a finger/Doing everything I'm told to do." As he becomes in-tune with his inner-Travis Bickle, the listener fears there will be severe consequence ahead. Unfortunately, Reznor's thinly veiled conceit never comes to fruition.

On "Came Back Haunted," Reznor has unwillingly gone through a personality adjustment (via the government) that has resulted in him slowly fading away. So much for Obamacare. Despite his menacing whispers and dark revelations nervously meshing together with a whiny, sinewy groove of shuffling electronic beats, elongated bass lines, jarring guitar riffs and the occasional blast of white noise, the sonic proceedings lack the thrills and chills of a man who's allegedly losing his mind.

Reznor is trying to find a way back to your pulsating, beating and blood-spurting heart on "Find My Way." Regretting that he revealed too much of himself to his potential soul and/or cell mate (maybe he made the mistake of showing her the unedited video for "Closer"), Reznor, in the guise of a love-sick Romeo, confesses all his sins and tries to make amends for all his shortcomings in the name of amour. Sounding like he's the existential equivalent to an unpopped kernel in the corn popper from hell, a soft-spoken Reznor tenderly laments his existence shrouded in a claustrophobic mix of muffled pings and pops, as well as sparse keyboard noodlings that convey a sense of deep regret and inconsolable misery.

Reznor is ready to slip off his mortal coil, but not before his main-squeeze does it first, on the sick and twisted suicide ode, "All Time Low." Who said chivalry is dead? After telling his lover that he hears her voice in "(expletive) echo stereo," Reznor threatens, "Why did you go and let them in/See this is where the fun begins/You barely even pierced the skin/Just wait 'til you see what has come in." In other words, it's just another typical night at the Reznor household. Despite Belew sounding like he's strangling a cats with his guitar strings, the song becomes a cocky glam-funk strut for a crooning Reznor to convince us to go against our better judgment and follow him into the abyss, like he has done countless times before and countless times better.

On the dysfunctional relationship ditty "Disappointed," Reznor tells a confidant that if he were them, he wouldn't trust a word he says. That is probably sound advice but it's hard not to be enticed by his dark and foreboding thoughts, even if they come equipped with a warning sticker. Shifting from licking-his-wounds lamentations to lashing out and demanding answers, Reznor drills, "Can I ask you something/What did you expect/So disappointed with what you get/Do you ever want to just get outta here/So disappointed/Just disappear." No matter how hard he tries, his screams are muffled and buried deep in the uneasy, queasy mix, almost as if it's impossible for his cries and concerns to penetrate his lover's thick, hard skull.

Reznor — who's not known for being warm, fuzzy or radio-friendly — takes the listener totally off guard on "Everything," a refreshing, demented blast of power pop. After boasting that he has tried and survived everything and anything (and, trust me, he means everything), Reznor once again laments how the little demons that live inside his head are slowly taking over its host. Despite the harsh sentiment and Reznor's desperate need for a deworming, "Everything" is actually new wavish, synth pop of the highest order.

Not only is Big Brother watching you on "Satellite," Reznor has a sneaky suspicion that they are monitoring his phone calls, reading his emails, watching his every move and, quite possibly, ruffling through his underwear drawer. Reeling from a bout of deep, dark paranoia (which, unfortunately, doesn't seem to be that off-base this time), our lovable anti-hero believes he's one step ahead of our evil government's eavesdropping practices. And his means of doing this? A half-baked Justin Timberlake impression, complete with tender falsetto and a futurist hip-hop groove with shuffling dance beats, fuzzed-out bass lines, faux hand claps and morse code distress signals. Reznor might be onto something. Keep this up and no one will ever want to listen to you again.

Reznor's mind is racing overtime on "Running." Treading the thin line between secret admirer and dangerous stalker, Reznor makes the internal confession, "I followed you again this morning/Just close enough to feel you near/Pretending everyone could see me/Just slip away and disappear." With sinister whispers symbolizing the little voices in his head (and, as usual, they sound like they're up to no good), Reznor acknowledges that he's running out of places where he can hide from his dark impulses. More annoying than unnerving, it sounds like the only thing Reznor is running out of is fresh ideas.

Time is running out on the album and so, too, it seems for Reznor and the rest of humanity on "While I'm Still Here." Reznor finds out that the world is ending. While he's OK with the Earth's demise, deep down inside he wishes it didn't have to end with such a wimper. Objective NIN fans will say the same about this record.